Party girl.
 Party girl, in her summer white dress and her three-inch heels and her straightened hair, left the party.
 She had entered, eyes widened with excitement and mascara, strawberry lips and powdered cheeks and eyelashes curled backward. She had entered, in her white dress and three-inch heels and her sequined purse, and she had stolen their looks, their breaths, their double-takes, for she looked beautiful.
 Party girl, from the library, from the shade of the lone oak in the playground, from the silent hand in the back of class.
 Party girl, sobbing in a public bathroom, eyes no longer wide, not with excitement, for it was gone; nor mascara, for it was running down her face.
 Party girl, she had spent hours perfecting her hair and her nails and her dress and her makeup and her acne and her every flaw for him.
 But he came for another.
 He had come for Her. Her, with the short dress with black lace sleeves, with the dark red makeup and the laugh like a million falling bells, like a million falling bells.
 And he had a suit and tie on, a suit and tie and a smile like the summertime, but it wasn't for her.
 He held roses behind his back, roses, red like Her lips, wrapped in black lace, black like Her sleeves.
 And She put her arm around him, and they spun into the darkness, a suit and a tie and black lace sleeves, a smile like the summertime, and in the distance, the echoes of a million falling bells.